User blog:Lordkenyon/The Silver Talon Part 2: The Adventurer
Previous Breldon’s right arm was getting worse. The most he could do was keep it wrapped in bandages, and hope that it would heal naturally. Yet the slices across his palms had healed into pale scars long ago while the burned arm had made no progress, instead constantly leaking watery blood and pus. Breldon had begun to notice the faint scent of gangrene in the wounds. He had tried to mask it by soaking the bandages in scented water, but the stench now overpowered such attempts. He wasn’t sure exactly how much time he had left. Before long, the rot would spread through his blood, and by the time he died Breldon would already be half a rotted corpse. It seemed Nahlgaaf would have his revenge, even beyond death. Breldon broke off this line of thought and glanced up, making and unmaking a fist with his right hand. The movement was clumsy, and the numb fingers moved slowly. And the dunmer was still glaring at him. Breldon gave him a slight smile, and received a scowl in response. The dunmer’s crimson eyes reminded him of an inferno, and Breldon felt some relief when the sellsword broke off his seething gaze to sip at a spoonful of soup. The innkeeper talked quietly with Calen in a corner on the far side of the backroom. The innkeeper’s wife, who was a fine cook, had taken a break from scolding Calen and the elf. She seemed to see every patron of the inn as her child and took fine care of them, but wasn’t above telling them off for misbehavior. Before Breldon had come her soup ladle had been the primary method of breaking up fights. Breldon had changed that. A fight broke out as he arrived and the young mage had cast a paralysis spell on the combatants. In the weeks since, Breldon had been provided free room and board, on the condition that he serve as what amounted to an arcane bouncer when such was called for. The innkeeper would yell his name, Breldon would vault down the stairs as fast as his ruined arm would permit, and two short castings would lay a conflict to rest. It was a good system. “Mage. What’s your name?” The dunmer’s question was simply constructed, and his accent was strong. Breldon surmised that the elf was not speaking in his native tongue. “I’m Breldon. Who are you?” “Uvaryl.” “You wear bonemold. Why are you so far from Vvardenfall?” “Left the Company.” Uvaryl’s tone and sudden volume suggested the answer was meant for more than just Breldon. The two descended into silence once more, and Uvaryl finished his soup. He seemed less sullen, but Breldon wasn’t entirely sure. To pass the time Breldon tried to determine why the dunmer carried two swords. He likely didn’t fight dual wielding, given the shield and that both scabbards were to the left. Perhaps one was a sidearm? Not meant to be used as a primary form of combat? That didn’t make sense either, the dunmer didn’t look like he could afford a sword that would go unused. Breldon was about to just ask Uvaryl when the innkeeper abruptly rose, along with his voice. “Look Calen, I just want to know what in Oblivion got into you! You’ve never caused anything close to trouble ever since you got here, and then you walk up and try to punch out an armed and armored sellsword! That’s not like you at all, and I’m worried!” The backroom was silent, and Calen looked part thoughtful and part terrified. Uvaryl ended the silence. “Who are you? How do you know who the Ashen Sons are?” Calen breathed a long, defeated sigh. “I don’t even know where to begin…” “It was a simple question, Calen.” The innkeeper’s tone was exasperated, and bordering on anger. “Not one with a simple answer.” Breldon noted Uvaryl’s slowing returning furt, and the innkeeper’s patience was growing frayed. “Just start at the beginning, we have the time.” His suggestion had the desired effect, and Calen’s acquiescence finished the job. “All… all right.” Calen muttered, and he began to tell his story. Category:Blog posts